


mirror, mirror on the wall

by Anonymous



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Doppelganger, Ficlet, Gen, Haircuts, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Permanent Injury, References to Depression, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tonight, not unlike most other nights, he finds sleeping isn't enough.[written for exodeux fest, prompt ED19]
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: EXODEUX Round 1





	mirror, mirror on the wall

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this is really short but I wanted to do this and I know it's not what was expected, but I do hope it's readable! Thank you to the prompter and the fest mods!

A blackened nail taps against the dirty, ceramic sink. 

Baëkhyun runs a hand over what used to be a mirror—a spectacle of ruin—and digs into the edges of masking tape across the middle. Paint flakes off where he scratches gently and then the rest of the thick layer crackles. Specks of paint dust fall onto the faucet.

Tonight, not unlike most other nights, he finds sleeping isn't enough. 

When he closes his eyes, he dreams. Luckily, he forgets most of them but some dreams are nightmares and they dig their claws into his heart till it threatens to beat at four times the speed because it doesn't understand what's happening. He blinks away leftover sleep. There will be more nights to think about those, about checkered ceilings and polished gun barrels. He continues peeling off the tape, waiting for exposure to his reflection. It doesn't come for another minute, and somewhere in the dingy bathroom, water begins to leak. He guesses it's the showerhead. 

First, he sees his eyes. Dark but spotted with grey—genetic failure—and then he sees his hair, silver and long, falling across his nose. It's the reason he's at the sink. There is no other reason for uncovering his wretched mirror if it weren't for the fear that he would snip off a finger or poke his eye as he tries to cut his hair. 

He doesn't dare to uncover the whole mirror. 

There is a scar across his face—self-inflicted and not the remains of war like he wants to believe some nights, to hail himself as a hero in his own eyes before his spine breaks—healed over with callouses at ragged edges and short, thin stitches barely holding in place. Baëkhyun scoffs, then breaks into bitter chuckles. His face. Who would have thought he would have to live with a face like this: soft, rounded around the edges, flushed and with beautiful eyes. He hates it. He absolutely hates it because this isn't something he earned, it was something imposed on him. Even beauty makes him feel like a wrung out mop when he remembers who this face belongs to. 

Byun Baekhyun, enemy of the red force. Who knows where he is today? He could be fending off invaders at the edge of their galaxy or delivering a speech to the masses with a smile. 

How loathsome. Baëkhyun hates that fucker. He hates that Baekhyun had to be important enough that he had to be cloned, that this shivering body was born in a tank that smelled of rotting flesh. This Frankenstein-ed body without the seams exists as a sour stain on the existence of the red force, and Baëkhyun's sole flicker of pride stems from his escape.

He remembers that he ran from knives at his chest and a gun mocking his mouth. He had run faster than he had any memory of, breath leaving quicker than his lungs could expand, could fill up again and make him feel alive. If Baëkhyun holds his breath for more than a few seconds, he finds himself haunted by the burn of lack of oxygen. It's just one of those moments. He wishes he could undo it. If he'd stayed at the lab, maybe he would be recycled by now—bone separated from synovial joint separated by bone and then the tear of muscle before his brain would blink off like a malfunctioning traffic light. Accidents would follow. Some smoke and ash. But he wouldn't stand here at least, looking at his ashen face.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Baëkhyun sighs, then steels himself. His fingers tremble but he remembers how they never shivered, not even once, as he held his own blades to the throats of men who had been doing their job. If he hadn't cared then, why should he be afraid now when it's just a scissor and his hair.

He tugs at the long strands in front of his eyes and twists them. If he could, he would burn them. He can't. Somewhere along the way, no matter how much he hates being alive, he has grown to freeze at the idea of death. He wants it, but he can't have it. Ugly retribution. Ugly, ugly, ugly, like his heart that has nothing to beat for and his fingers that are scarred and scorched. 

He picks up the scissors he left at the counter last night. It glints silver in the light that falls in from the small bathroom window. 

It's early in the morning, somewhere between five and six he guesses because the sun hasn't completely risen yet, and the darkness of the universe is hidden behind a sky built of a myriad of colours. Pink, blue; farewell to yet another night that will be forgotten. One more day of routine, one more day of waiting for the horrid, acidic feeling in Baëkhyun's chest to die. 

It takes eight minutes for the sunrise to finish, and he wishes desperately to finish cutting his hair by then. 

He avoids looking at his scar as he places the scissor in front of his eyes. Just a snip. He moves his fingers. A few more snips. It's cathartic, he finds, to see the grimy hair falling into the sink, and he refuses to think what would happen if the drain gets clogged. It's a problem for future him. If he exists until then, that is.

Byun Baekhyun always wore his hair short, neatly trimmed, smelling of jasmine and humane body oil, and Baëkhyun wants to bite his tongue because his mouth collapses in on itself as he craves to smell the same.

Somedays, he wants to be what he was made to be. 

Somedays, he wants to kill Baekhyun.

And he would have if it weren't for the collapse of the lab, for the break-in and for the air vents that burst one evening. Snip. Drip. Drip. One more snip. His eyes are visible and his friend sits carefully where his eyebrows are scattered.

There's no point in this. Still, he runs the water, allows it to gush when his eyes refuse to because his lachrymal glands have been vacuumed dry with the sting of his own thoughts, and stares as his hair catches on the drain cap before sliding in. 

Baëkhyun wishes he could be like that.

Later, he will pull out the can of paint he has and will cover the mirror again, but for now, he stands there, knuckles white, as sunlight filters onto his face and catches the glimmer in his eyes. Perhaps if he tries hard enough, he will be able to cry. But first, he will go back to sleep and dream of everything that he wants to be.

**Author's Note:**

> :D I like to believe he will build a life of his own, even if it won't be the best. Someday perhaps, he will run into Baekhyun.


End file.
